Dominic Conlon - Arctic Firepath

‘You are dying to know why I am travelling under this passport,’ Khostov teased.

‘I am curious, yes.’

Khostov held his palm up to staunch further questions. ‘I can only say so much. Any more would be bad for your health.’

‘Well then, tell me what you can.’

Alexei Khostov settled back in the leather seat, considering just how much he could reveal. After a few moments, he began. ‘In Moscow, I was assigned to a project right out of the blue.’

‘Involving?’

‘Involving the latest design of nuclear power plants for ice breakers and floating platforms working in the Arctic.’

‘Why were you surprised? You are the foremost nuclear physicist in Russia — and probably the world!’

‘Because the assignment had nothing to do about the design of the power plants. There are enough engineers doing that job, together with some very experienced people in an American corporation partnering the company.’

‘So what were you asked to do?’

‘Play detective.’

‘Detective — detecting what?’

Khostov seemed pensive. ‘This is where the circumstances become sensitive. You forget Petrov, in Russia there are a lot of under-cover payments, especially on big projects such as this one.’ He glanced at his friend. ‘You have some personal experience of this, I believe.’

Yakov smiled. ‘There’s no need to get personal Alexei.’

‘The sums of money involved in this project are truly staggering.’ Khostov murmured. ‘And someone died.’

‘Oh.’ Yakov was quiet for a moment. ‘You thought you might be next?’

‘Yes’.

‘So somebody found out. They didn’t like the idea, and you came here for safety.’

‘Em, not exactly.’

‘Not exactly?’

‘No. But I found a new aptitude for detective work.’

‘Ah. So you discovered where the money was going?’

Khostov nodded.

‘Where?’

Khostov put a single finger up to his lips.

At the National Geospatial Intelligence Agency headquarters in Springfield Virginia, Sarah Giles squinted at the fuzzy photograph on her computer screen. The satellite imaging equipment was working correctly, but low cloud and atmospheric pollution had blurred the subject.

She began to use a standard set of tools to try and measure the size of the object. The blur was definitely some kind of ship, but it didn’t seem to fit into any known category on the database. She read off the figures: length 150 m, beam 50 m, estimated draught of 6 m and displacement of 25,400 m3.

She checked the figures again, attempting to match them with the catalogue. Still nothing fitted exactly and she shrugged. The nearest was a freighter, but the location and course of the target didn’t correspond with anything plying the world’s oceans. Sarah hit the palm of her hand on the desk in frustration. She would have to go and see her boss.

Peter Lint’s desk was a short walk across the open plan office. He was always accommodating, but she didn’t want to keep on monopolising his time when she knew he had more critical things to do. Even so, she had a feeling this sighting might be important and she couldn’t just ignore the problem. She tapped quietly on the door and entered.

Peter Lint smiled as she approached. ‘What have you got?’

‘Sorry to disturb you. I’ve sent you a pic of an unidentified vessel. I wondered if you could help me out on this one?’

‘Let’s see.’ Peter opened the picture on his screen. ‘Have you been tracking this?’

‘Yep. She left Arkhangelsk yesterday. She’s not a trawler; she’s too small for a freighter, but too big for a commercial yacht. I couldn’t find her on any database.’

‘OK. Predicted track?’

‘Looks like she’s following the North East Passage — so far.’

‘Hm. Let’s check the database for new ship types. It’s most probably Russian, and we know its dimensions and tonnage.’ Peter checked his computer. ‘There.’ He pointed to the information on his monitor.

Sarah leaned over. ‘An icebreaker! I would never have guessed — it’s much larger than any icebreakers I know.’

‘Well’ said Peter, ‘that’s what it is. Probably going to join others in the Pechora Sea — about 800 miles north and east of her home port.’

‘I apologise for troubling you,’ she mumbled. ‘I don’t understand how quickly you found the information.’

‘That’s OK.’ Peter grinned. ‘It’s very new, so I’d keep an eye on it if I were you.’

‘Will do, and thanks again.’ She stood up.

‘Ah Sarah,’ Peter called out. ‘I don’t mind you popping over when you’ve got a query. That’s what I’m here for. Would you care for a little advice?’

She paused. ‘I’d be glad of any tips.’

‘I suggest you need to do some more of your own research on ships you are tasked with monitoring. Get to identify everything about them: their home ports, destinations, cargo and etcetera. I know it’s difficult to do at work when there’s so much going on. You’ll find it easier to do your studying at home.’

‘OK Peter, I’ll see what I can do.’

Lint could tell she wasn’t convinced. ‘You’re good at your job Sarah — but you have the potential to be far better. If you study you’ll become more useful to the organisation and increase your chances of promotion.’

‘Thank you Peter,’ she smiled. ‘I do enjoy my work, and I will make the extra effort.’

Maxim Desny watched as Gavrilovich Markow plonked a mug of coffee down on Zlotnik’s table, spilling a little in the process. Zlotnik studied the cup for a whole minute through tungsten-rimmed glasses. His large head seemed too heavy for his shoulders and hung unnaturally forward. He had several days’ stubble and a waxy sheen covered his light-brown skin, making him appear ill. Gleaming dark hair was combed straight back with unruly waves appearing at the neck.

Desny knew he was not ill; he always looked like that. Maxim Desny had worked with Zlotnik before, but he could never figure out the man’s thoughts. People feared him for this, and the trait for sudden violence.

Zlotnik moved his arm, sweeping the mug to the floor. The pottery shattered on the tiled concrete, and all conversation in the room stopped.

Desny looked around at his colleagues to gauge their reaction. Gavrilovich Markow from the FSB was a big man, and not easily frightened. A direct descendant of the old Soviet KGB, the FSB was a much feared Soviet intelligence agency. Desny had worked with Markow too, briefly, when they were both in Moscow. Further along, Desny saw Yasha Petrov from GRU intelligence, a thin, hard looking character. GRU was the military intelligence directorate of the Armed Forces. Desny had not met Petrov, but his background as a sniper fitted the picture.

Mila Urilenko from the FSO sat opposite Petrov. This was the first time Desny had seen Urilenko, and he was struck by his features. He had the countenance of a schoolboy on a man’s body, the skin pock-marked, as though still in puberty. A lopsided haircut added to the illusion. He wore clothes one size too small, making his arms and belly seem fat. The man’s reputation preceded him. Rumour had it that the FSO were obliged to take him from the FSB because of his antisocial tendencies. The FSO was the federal protection service for high-ranking state officials, and Desny guessed he must have had good contacts in the Kremlin to secure such a high ranking post. Desny couldn’t work out what he was doing here, but he hoped to find out shortly.

A steward scuttled forward to clean up the spilt coffee, and Zlotnik waited until he had gone.

He stood up. ‘I am Serge Zlotnik, the leader of this little group.’ He surveyed their faces. ‘Some of you already know me; those that don’t will soon. I sent for you because I believe you are the best in your respective fields.’ He turned on a projector. ‘I have a task for you.’ They observed a composed head and shoulders shot of a man, obviously taken by a professional photographer. His lined face had dark hair going grey at the temples. The eyes seemed to hold a mischievous twinkle.